Tattoo
by Madam Pudifoot
Summary: He thought that perhaps he’d ought to be weeping miserably at the loss of his first born son, but his cheek stayed dry, his chest tight only from the long walk, nothing more.


Tattoo

If there was one thing that Jack had learned in all his years sailing, it was that all men looked forward to shore leave, no matter how much they loved the sea. He was no exception to this rule, even if he'd been born in a tempest and understood the sea better than most.

It was always exciting docking at a town, laden with money from their latest venture. Residents were eager to catch a glimpse of their newest guests, merchants always had goods to sell, the rum flowed freely, and the wenches were more than happy to show a lonely sailor a good time. 

It was with the last two ideas at the forefront of his mind that Jack made his way to the back of the town, past rundown homes and musty taverns. Madame Adelaide's looked just the same as it had the last time he'd been there – heavy curtains covering every window, blocking out the overpowering stench of cologne.

It was perhaps a little early to be calling, but they'd been at sea for nearly three months. A man had needs! And surely Madame wouldn't turn down a bit of shine from one of her best customers?

Jack entered after knocking, but he didn't bother to wait for someone to let him in. He knew his way around well enough by now. Madame came bustling from a back room, looking rather irritated. When he saw him she smiled, her face pulled taut from the effort.

She greeted him and then ushered into the parlor, asking how his ventures had been lately and if he was well. It seemed an odd thing for her to inquire, but Jack nonetheless replied that all was well, bodily, psychologically, internally, and fiscally.

She nodded uninterestedly, and then got right down to business, asking what he had in mind. He told her that he'd enjoyed the last woman he'd seen – the redhead. She seemed to expect this because she smiled again. He noted that the smile didn't quite reach her eyes as she asked that he might perhaps consider another one for tonight?

He knew then that something was wrong, and so he insisted that she bring him the redhead and no, he really didn't have any particular interest in any of the other women at the moment but maybe next time he'd consider them.

A girl was sent up to find the redhead while Jack stood patiently, pointedly ignoring the glare he was being subjected to by Madame. She told him that he would likely not be pleased, but was otherwise silent.

He puzzled over the statement for a moment, wondering what could put him off. The woman had been startlingly beautiful, with thick red hair, pouting lips, and all the right curves. Hardly a thing to be disappointed over.

The serving girl returned, bowing herself out of the room as another woman stepped in her place. Her hair was red, although it seemed oily, and she didn't don any paint, nor was she wearing an elaborate dress. Instead she wore a simple brown skirt, her hair pulled into a sloppy queue. She also happened to be very noticeably pregnant

At first he thought that this was some sort of joke – It couldn't possibly be the girl he'd requested! And then it dawned on him that if ever there were a reason to be upset, this was it.

The strumpet seemed to share his sentiments, for she took one good look at him before turning on her heel and storming out of the room.

Jack mentally counted the time that he had been away, double-checking several times over to see if he'd added it up wrong. No matter how many times he tried, he still came up with eight months.

Not good.

But then, this was a brothel so it was probable, almost certain in fact, that there had been other men after he'd left. It was a nasty coincidence, that was all. He'd even gone so far as to voice these thoughts, but Madame only shook her head, frowning bitterly as she reminded him that this was a quiet town and she kept good watch over her girls'.

There was no doubt regarding the child's parentage, she'd said; no ships had pulled in after his, not until she was well with child. Only then did it occur to him that he didn't even remember the whore's name. There had been so many in his life, how was he expected to keep track of them all?

Something akin to guilt washed over him as he wondered if this was the first time he'd gotten anyone with child before, but he let the feeling pass. It was purely on a whim that he'd come back and he'd be sure to never make that mistake again.

Although he told himself that he didn't care, Jack ended up extending the crew's shore leave and taking room at the local inn. He wasn't sure why he didn't just leave, like any sane man would. Perhaps it was some warped sense of loyalty or the fact that he'd never known his own parents, but something kept him from stealing off into the night.

The Pearl stayed anchored for nearly two weeks, the crew growing steadily more restless by the day, but still their captain refused to set sail. On the sixteenth day he was informed that Rebecca (as he'd later learned was the woman's name) was lying in and still refused to see him. An argument quickly ensued with Madame, which consisted of many colorful words shouted from opposite sides of the closed door. Jack finally forced himself in after he'd tired of yelling, pushing roughly past anyone who tried to impede his journey.

He then stood quietly in the corner, well out of the mother-to-be's reach, oblivious to her shrieking and sobbing as she damned him and even his father several times over almost as soon as he'd entered.

All he could see was the bright crimson smear that stained the floorboards, seeping into the corners of the room. There was so much blood that it seemed impossible a new life could take shape without it.

Eventually Rebecca flopped feebly against the chair as a weak sort of mewl filled the air. The blood had stopped flowing as freely, although it was still far too much for Jack's liking. Several maids attended to the exhausted woman, making sure that she was well while the midwife busied herself with the baby.

She shook her head sadly as she cleaned the babe, carefully wiping its face before she wrapped it in a frayed set of sheets. The new mother took one look at the child before bursting into tears, outright refusing to so much as look at it further. No amount or persuasion could sway her into holding the infant.

Only then did Jack step forward, arms outstretched, trembling. He wouldn't dare admit that the sight of blood made him ill, that he was afraid of what sort of gruesome sight could force a mother to shun her own child. He found that there was no need to explain anything – the midwife readily handing off the child, scowling, although there was a sadness in her eyes as she locked them with his for the briefest of seconds.

She then left, escorting a distraught Rebecca out, closing the door behind her. He slumped to the floor, suddenly feeling tired despite the warm glow of the afternoon sun as it crept in through the curtained window.

Jack peered curiously down at the bundle after he'd made himself comfortable. The babe didn't look much different from any other so far as he could tell – its face was squished up, still wrinkled and pale, but certainly not at all as disgusting as Rebecca had made it out to be. He (for Jack had checked the child's gender before all else) had a few errant strands of black hair which were sticking up at odd angles, much like Jack's, and his pointed nose confirmed any doubts as to who his father might be.

But there was certainly no doubting just what had caused the sorry looks from the midwife. There were odd little blisters scattered across the boy's body and face, and his eyes, which should have been dark brown, looked milky and bloodshot.

Jack rubbed at his jaw subconsciously, fingers ghosting over the familiar scar. He'd never given the sore much thought before – it had been there for years now but it had never given him any trouble aside from the occasional ache. It was simply another reminder of his past mistakes, just like the two bullet holes and his extensive collection of gashes.

It didn't make sense that he had escaped the disease while a small child, not even an hour old, was already suffering. The boy didn't even have a name yet, though there would scarcely be a need for one. The phrase 'Little Stranger' flashed through his mind, but he didn't pause to give it much thought.

Jack couldn't remember ever feeling so useless before – so vulnerable. He couldn't stand to sit there and watch. He wanted to do something – anything, but he was wise enough to understand that there was nothing to do but wait. This wasn't his battle to fight, and there'd be no talking his way out of it.

And so he waited, singing quietly, stumbling through the words, desperately clutching at the melody. It seemed like a lifetime ago that his mother had sang the same song to him as she tucked him into bed, stroking his hair lovingly.

He'd never imagined that he might sing it to his own child one day. (The very thought terrified him, even as he continued humming out of tune.) But he couldn't dwell on the past, it was done now and there was no reclaiming what had been lost. For now he had to concentrate on the now, because he didn't think he could manage to think of the future when all he knew were feeble cries and flailing fists as his child fought off unseen demons.

Jack suddenly wished that the thing would just die – he couldn't stand to sit and watch it waste away; to fight a losing battle. The coppery musk in the air was suffocating, drowning out all coherent thoughts. He wanted out, wanted to feel the cool air against his cheek, the sea spray as it whipped through his hair.

He wanted to be anywhere but here.

It physically hurt to watch the tiny chest rise and fall erratically, fighting for each breath. But Jack refused to flee, not from this. He might be a lot of things – blackguard, scallywag, and criminal – but never heartless, no matter how hard he tried to be. He wouldn't let an innocent suffer alone and so he sat in the grimy room, hugging his son to him, hoping that his presence gave the boy some sort of comfort.

Night had started to fall by the time the battle was over.

Someone had been in to clean earlier, although he'd failed to notice it at the time. Jack thought that someone had come to check on him several times throughout the day, although his mind drew a blank when he tried to recall just how many times.

All he wanted was to forget that the day had ever happened – to forget the small, cooling body kept safely tucked in his arms.

He didn't know how long he sat there, unthinking and unfeeling aside from the dull tingling sensation in his legs. Only after one of the strumpets came in squawking that 'he'd be sure to catch ill spirits clutching that thing to him, and that it was dead, didn't he see?' did Jack stumble to his feet, struggling to force himself out the front door and into the chilling night, bundle left in the bewildered arms of Madame Adelaide.

The air did little to awaken him as he made his way back to town, mind set on a pint of rum (or as many as he could get before he was tossed out onto the street for the night). He thought that perhaps he'd ought to be weeping miserably at the loss of his first-born son, but his cheek stayed dry, his chest tight only from the long walk, nothing more.

It was a shame that the child had no name to be remembered by. True, there wasn't much to remember, and certainly nothing he wanted to reflect on, but Jack couldn't help but think that the babe had earned at least a name. He'd put up a decent fight despite it all.

He'd earned more than just a name – he'd ought to be commemorated for his valiant struggle against death's chokehold. But Jack had nothing to tie in his hair, nor anything he could fasten on his belt for tribute.

Even that didn't seem enough. Blood had been spilt today, but there were no physical wounds to show for it. With no trinkets or scars to show for his tribulation, Jack felt rather morose. And then he had a thought: he could give the child the one honor that no one but Jack himself had earned. His name permanently etched onto Jack's person.

That fact that the child was nameless was unimportant. If his mother hadn't cared enough to even hold her son just the once, then Jack thought he had every last right to christen the boy.

There was no doubt as to what to call him. Jack had never expected anyone to shoulder his burdens – he would gladly take it all – and so there was only one thing he could possibly consider calling the boy. He had, after all, died for his father's sins.

Of course it would have to be etched onto Jack's arm – It was the only place the babe had known before he'd passed and Jack never wanted to forget the pleasant weight that he'd only experienced for a few precious hours.

No matter where he went, he would always have little Jack with him. The thought was calming one, bringing a smile to his face as he realized that he would always have something to show for his son's life no matter how brief it had been.


End file.
